


Strangers 2033 (Metro 2033 Fan Fiction)

by hansereyno



Category: Metro 2033 & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-06-20 00:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15522189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hansereyno/pseuds/hansereyno
Summary: Part One. An outlandish, well-equipped military unit picks its way through Moscow towards the famous Metro, the first ambassadors of a restored Russian force. What will they make of the turmoil and degeneracy contained by the tunnels below their beloved city? And what will the denizens of the Metro make of these arrivals? [Metro 2033 fan fiction].





	1. From Outside The Metro

**Strangers 2033**

                    The gas-masked, armour-clad, camo-uniformed, 7-strong squad advanced down the bombed-out causeway, a grim path hedged on either side by the sloping rubble of collapsed buildings, all of the pre-war allure that once beckoned many a Russian to this grandest of cities gone. The sky reflected the sombre scene. ‘Moscow bleak’, some nameless starving artist had coined its unerring greyness, finding equal measures of damnable depression and impossible inspiration in its characteristic shade. ‘Bleak’ certainly described the haunted place today. The air was just as hostile as what little life remained.

                    This atmosphere was not at all what the band of pioneers had expected: Moscow was in their blood, as it was with any true Russian, but the avenues and streets here commanded a special significance for them, and to see it in such a state tore at their hearts. It had been many years since then, but they, some more faintly than others, remembered marching down this very causeway, together, in step, their military uniforms crisp and clean, the assembled crowds cheering wildly, national pride on full parade. Victory Day was far in the past.

                    Only Arban, or ‘Little Arby’ as his nickname went, had no memory of that procession; he had been the last man assigned to this squad, part of the squad for only a handful of months before the bombs fell and everything changed. Because of this, and the fact that he’d therefore never served on a live operation, or on an operation when “command” was a thing at least, he was still seen as a rookie, as being somehow being less capable. Eager to shake off this stubborn perception, Arby strove to out-do his team mates wherever he could. His reckless envy was perhaps the only poorly forged link in the tight chain that was their military unit.

                    “You know,” remarked Yelsi, the battalion’s poet, breaking their long-running silence. “I couldn’t have pictured this at all. I always thought, or hoped, that some of it would have survived untouched.” Her sweet voice came out raspy and harsh through her gas mask. All surface conversation sounded like that these days. To Yelsi’s remark there was quiet agreement. Even for Arby, it was an eerie feeling to walk through this broken shell of a city.

                    “It survives in here.” Commander Mladin thumped his chest with his spare hand, the other of course clutching his rifle; a rifle of a quality unknown in these parts. None of them could see his action but they all heard it.

                    “Oh, of course.” Yelsi replied. Then she sighed. “I-”

                    “Sh!” Revlin barked from behind. “Left. Window!”

                    Mladin, their beloved, redoubtable leader, snapped up his left hand as a signal. Instinctively, collectively, rhythmically, the squad members each dropped to one knee and raised their rifles at the target.

                    “Window with smoke coming out.” Revlin counted. “Two from the end.”

                    The party had been proceeding in a typical arrowhead formation. Mladin was the steel tip, the man at the front. To his left, and now closest to the danger, were Vlostad, Similya and Revlin himself. Vlostad and Similya often stayed close, which drew plenty of somewhat-unwanted attention from their comrades. To the right of Mladin, several paces across the causeway, fanned out Yelsi, Tyomas and Arban. Arban and Revlin were the rear-guard, a duty perceived to be a great honour by one and not so much the other.

                    “I don’t see it.” Tyomas peered through his ironsights.

                    “The window.” Revlin directed. “The cracked one that’s smoking.”

                    “No target," echoed Vlostad. His eye glared through a rifle sight too.

                    “What and when?” Mladin was calm, measured.

                    “I see nothing,” Yelsi added.

                    “It’s still there,” hissed Revlin, forcing the words out through his air filter.

                    “Wait...” began Arby.

                    “It’s looking right at me!” Revlin broke into a sweat.

                    It jumped out. “ **Blyad!** ” A blur of grey fur and claws. Revlin rolled to his left. Reflex. A narrow dodge. _It_ clattered onto the concrete. Momentum carried it. Rippled muscles spurred it on across the causeway. Teeth flashed. Drool sprayed. A throaty roar broke. The beast charged at Arban.

                    “Ah!” The recruit fired off three shots. They missed or did nothing. The beast pounced on him, like a rabid cat on a blind mouse. In seconds he was pinned, claws sunk into his right arm, teeth set to work his outer Kevlar vest. With his limp body well in its clutches, _it_ began the swift task of dragging him away. He left a thin blood trail as he went. “Ah!” He let out again.

                    Revlin was still reeling, and Vlostad and Similya were between the beast and the rest of the squad, obscuring lines of fire. Finding themselves flanking it, the couple shifted. The animal lunged through the gap between those two, hoping to snatch its prize away, back into the building. Together, as if synchronised, Vlostad and Similya lowered their rifles to fire, saw the risk, and paused. They’d hit each other if they shot. The beast was quick.

                    The pair simultaneously wept back their rifles over their shoulders, letting their gun slings deal with the weapons. In the same motion they both drew their combat knives with their left hands. It was like a race between equally matched sprinters. They brought up their blades and then, in the air, dramatically, right hands joined left hands, and they both brought down two two-handed strikes against the monster. Metal pierced hide. The thing, all rage and slobber, reared back and let out a howl: hurt, pain and pride. It didn’t know which human to strike at first.

                    On his feet and strafing round for a clear shot, Revlin came face to face with the creature. It was far taller than him, bear-like. He met its gaze for the second time. The last time. One bang. Two. He fired his weapon. The rounds he used were silenced, but even still they packed an audible punch. They ripped up through the beast’s jaw and out through its skull. It reared up, staggered, and then toppled onto Arban with a nasty cracking sound. Arban wheezed out an ‘ouch’.

                    Mladin stomped over, his oversized backpack swaying with each step. His pack was the heaviest; really, he should have commanded one of his squad to carry the extra equipment, but Mladin was a tough nut. He’d become a commander, or whatever the pre-war equivalent would’ve been, by raw skill and strength, not by any particular talent for leadership or politicking. He carried the heaviest load because his back was strongest. To him that made sense. Nobody disagreed.

                    The commander grasped the dead animal’s legs as Vlostad and Similya took up those at the front. The three of them heaved the corpse off their friend. The other soldiers, Revlin, Tyomas and Yelsi, reorganised themselves into a protective triangle, raising their weapons and scanning the surrounding area. This was their first encounter. If this thing was skulking around, there would probably be other _things_ too.

                    Arban was freed. Similya glanced over her shoulder at the thing while Vlostad and Tyomas exchanged positions. Tyomas was the medical technician. An important man. Arban was breathing hard. “I-,” He tried to move. A mistake. Mladin flashed a hand signal: stay still.

                    “Tyomas?” Mladin asked.

                    “Looks painful.” Tyomas was already patting down his wounded comrade with sympathetic but professional hands. He felt blood, lots of blood, around the injured arm, but nowhere else. The armoured vest, something issued to and worn by all of them, had just about stopped the animal’s fangs. “How do you feel in the head, Arby?”

                    “My…” Arban flinched as Tyomas jostled his arm, tearing through the cut-resistant uniform to get to the bleeding. “Blyad! I think it tore my arm off. It’s gone. It’s gone! And my chest…” He gritted his teeth.

                    “You’ve not lost your arm, little one.” As the medic spoke, Mladin unclasped the quick-release fasteners on Tyomas’ backpack and placed it roughly beside the technician’s side. Tyomas rifled through it for his kit. “I was more worried about you having a concussion. But it’d be hard for us to tell if you’ve lost any brain cells, wouldn’t it?” This healer of theirs also doubled as their camp comedian.

                    Arby’s riposte was lost to his gas mask.

                    The medic paused. “You said your chest was bad? Try and talk to me.”

                    “Think I lost my … ribs.”

                    Tyomas neatly and efficiently finished applying a bandage. The others in the group began to get restless. They wanted to get away before a bigger beast saw the scene and reckoned an excellent meal was to be had. “Right. Your arm’s done. Let me feel your chest.” He stuck his hand up Arban’s shirt and began to probe the area. “Yep. Feels like you’ve lost a rib or two. Probably just the one.” He nodded, affirming himself. “I think it is just the one. We’d know if it was more serious. Don’t worry, you’ll live; plenty of people walk about with broken ribs. It should heal just fine if you take it slow.”

                    Mladin watched, passive. “He’s fit to move?”

                    Tyomas nodded.

                    “Okay. Then we move.” Mladin helped Tyomas in getting Arby to his feet. The recruit couldn’t help but whimper as he was hoisted up. The rib hurt like hell. He desperately hoped no one noticed.

                    As they walked, Arban fumed. Not just because of the pain, the snapped bone creating an awful feeling of pressure, but because they hadn’t been in Moscow for two hours and he’d already been crippled. He cursed the damn bear wolf mutant thing. Here he was on this historic mission, there to meet their long-lost countrymen, and he’d be introducing himself as a cripple, not as the military hero he deserved to be. Why, he’d been promoted to this damn unit for his actual acts of valour in the first place. He wasn’t an idiot.

                    As he took tentative test steps, the attention of the others fixed upon him, he had a coughing fit. As he retched, he could’ve sworn he tasted blood in his mouth. Oh no. “I’m coughing up blood! Blood! Tyomas!” He began to slump forward.

                    The medic caught him. “Hey! Hey!” Tyomas straightened his charge’s back and wrestled with Arby’s gas mask. It was difficult to unclasp another’s XL5, but he managed. He parted Arban’s lips and inspected his mouth. “No, no. there’s just a cut on your lip.” Arby felt complete shame. He paled.

                    “Iodine,” instructed Mladin.

                    Arby patted around his uniform. He found the right vial. Quickly he popped the cap and peppered his tongue with several drops.

                    “Mask.”

                    Arby complied. He fastened his mask back on. Tyomas helped tighten it.

                    Mladin had seen enough. “Back to arrow formation. Vlostad and Similya, you two on rear guard.” At least Revlin was being rebuked too, thought Arby.

                    As they set off, Tyomas gestured to Arban’s right arm from across the way. He raised his voice so his instructions were clear. “If you need to use your rifle, use that bit of bandage that’s sticking up. Just pull it and the whole thing will unravel.”

                    They hadn’t moved several feet down the road when Similya spotted something. “Movement. Right side.” The group wheeled about and took aim. A similarly evil-looking, mutated head poked itself out. Calculating black eyes surveyed them. The squad stared right back. The creature cocked its head, appearing to consider its options for a moment or two, before withdrawing back into the shadows of the ruined building. Several tense minutes later, the unit continued on their way.

***

                    The military team neared their objective with no other excitement. They stopped once or twice to wait out darting silhouettes or to check for signs of human life. All the while Moscow Bleak was turning to Moscow Dark. They remained in their arrow, V, formation until they’d passed through an industrial-looking area and came upon an impressively squat building that could only be described as administerial. It had the faux-period look of a government building all right. Columns were chipped and tainted white paint flaked away to reveal messy brick underwork.

                    Mladin had the band halt while he consulted his map. He traced their route, from the Military Academy to their intended destination. Had they gone wrong? Nope. He tapped the map. This was right. He knew where they were. Straight ahead. Not far at all.

                    “We’re close. It’s just on the other side over. We’ll cut down this alley to our right.” He signalled for them to proceed.

                    When they reached the alleyway they peered down it, curious. It was in this action, casting wary glances down an abandoned shaft, that they made first contact with human survivors. At least, they looked like humans. Two crooked silhouettes were visible midway down alley. They were hunched over and skeletal-looking, like starving troglodytes. This was the first human contact they'd had in over two weeks of solid journeying, but there was no outburst of emotion, no tears of joy, no open arms.

                    “People?” whispered Yelsi. Moscow had been far more battered than she’d envisioned. Would the people be too? Everyone back home had heard the Metro rumours. Some said a second holocaust was taking place down there, the cries of human misery echoing throughout. Some spoke of strange blacker-than-black nightmares that stalked the tunnels, using psychic powers to drive men mad. Others talked of rampant cannibalism and a degenerate society. The appearance of these two frightening figures brought the dark rumours into the thoughts of the squad. Yelsi, with her powerful, dream-like imagination, founds herself dwelling on them. She shuddered.

                    The two scavengers shifted and looked up, noticing their silent audience, and straightened themselves. The two groups stared at one another. Silence reigned. Numbers? Two versus seven. Distance? About two hundred metres. Another two hundred metres to the end of the alley. Weapons? Weapons on both sides. Hostile? Likely. Mladin considered the details. Shoot or shout?

                    The two figures bent their heads, perhaps in conversation, and then they turned and fled. That was it. Mladin signalled pursuit. Vlostad and Similya took up the call and sprinted off in pursuit. Their black boots kicked up ashy dust as they sped down the alleyway. Their speed was impressive. They’d set records at the Academy. Better fed, better trained and naturally gifted, they covered the distance with ease. Their quarry stumbled from the alleyway and rounded the corner. Vlostad and Similya bounded out of view after them.

                    Mladin’s unit followed, albeit with a little less speed. They heard the coarse bark of gunfire before they’d exited the alley. That first volley was unfamiliar. Definitely no weapon the squad had trained with or had recent access to. The shots just didn’t sound right. Next came the mechanically-dampened sound of fire from their comrades’ AUGs. They all knew that sound. Just two shots.

                    The group rounded the corner to see two fresh corpses bleeding out on the street, Vlostad and Similya already picking the bodies clean. “Our first contact,” observed Yelsi, regret in her voice. Her XL5, the way it distorted all their voices, thankfully hid her sobs.

                    “In your prime you’d have caught these two in the alley,” noted Tyomas, trying to conjure cheer despite the sympathetic appearance of the two people they’d just killed. “Or maybe you stopped for a kiss?” It was a poor attempt at mirth.

                    “Look at this.” Similya hoisted up one of their enemies’ guns. Or attempt at a gun. The thing was a cobbled-together bastard of spare parts and trash.

                    Revlin stepped forward, intrigued. “What a weapon. I’m not sure if this is genius or madness.”

                    “The two often complement one another,” Yelsi offered.

                    “It explains the sound. I thought the way their guns fired was a bit off.”

                    “Could’ve been the ammo.” Similya shared a look with Vlostad.

                    “Huh?” Revlin inspected the gun more closely, impressed.

                    Vlostad shook his head but Similya ignored him. “They got a hit on me, but the shell literally bounced off.” She pointed to her vest. “Not even a tear.”

                    Mladin ground his teeth. “Next time **you** fire first.”

                    “Yes sir.”

                    “Yes sir.”

                    “Anything else?” The commander tipped his head to the bodies.

                    Similya shook her head. “Just their rags and their masks.”

                    “Usable?”

                    “Way worse make than ours. I wouldn’t trust in the mask filters, either.”

                    “They might be useful.”

                    She shrugged. “One’s useless; I shot the woman through the eye.”

                    “Woman?” piped up Arban. “Christ.”

                    Similya took offence. “They were both under fed. Desperate.”

                    Arban went back to feeling sorry for himself.

                    Mladin thought a little more. “Take the mask that’s not damaged. If they use different filters here, a compatible mask is a useful mask.” His orders were obeyed. “Right. The building there,” he motioned, “hosts our entry-point. There’s a good chance these people were using it. It may be compromised, so eyes open. Continue.”

***

                    This building was much like the one they’d passed to reach it, though a little less grand. The windows lacked glass, like most of the city, and several walls had fallen in on themselves. Surprisingly enough, its tall front doors, damaged oak, remained shut and relatively intact. A miscoloured A4-sized patch suggested a paper notice or plaque had recently been removed from the entrance.

                    They were in the last light, and night time proper was creeping upon them. Things could be heard stirring across the city, sounds of the prowl: of rubbish being sifted through, of sleepy jaws snapping at small prey, of debris being knocked about.

                    “This is it,” Mladin confirmed, checking his map.

                    Yelsi wandered over to a high-paned window and used her rifle’s muzzle to draw aside a tattered curtain. Inside it was bad. The furnishings had not survived. Whatever colour the place was once painted, it was now the colour of smoke. Piping and brick work was exposed by peeling plaster. The room, nothing short of a mess, looked bare and unoccupied. Bare and unoccupied was good enough. “Might be better to go in through a window. Keep the doors shut?”

                    “Try them.”

                    Revlin tried the doors carefully. He was the technical specialist, the one responsible for checking for traps, and then for disarming them. “Doors are locked tight.”

                    “Good. As Yelsi said.” Mladin gestured for him to continue.

                    Revlin mantled the chest-high window pane and entered the building. Similya and Vlostad were last to enter, watching their comrades’ backs until everyone else was through, including Arby, who found the manoeuvre incredibly difficult with his injuries. The last two soldiers in flicked on their flashlights, following their comrades’ example.

                    The gutted first room set the tone. A single line of fire damage followed them from room to corridor to room to corridor, snaking between power outlets and light switches like a thick black vein contained by taught pale skin. The occasional hole here and there, where bricks had tumbled free, provided grimy windows into hauntingly desolate side rooms and offices.

                    “Some sort of admin building?” Tyomas wondered aloud.

                    “Government, almost definitely,” Similya said.

                    “You can still smell the bureaucracy,” added Yelsi, wading through a pile of paper scrap.

                    “Funny that they had a tunnel to the metro,” Similya mused.

                    “True.” Vlostad agreed. He stopped to read something pinned to a wall. The ink on the notice had faded and the brightness of his high-power torch paradoxically made it more difficult to read, not easier. He gave up and followed his squad mates, returning to his state of combat readiness. Just because the doors were shut didn’t mean that no one, or no thing, would be in here, all too keen to say hello.

                    They stalked through the ground floor at a slow pace, being mindful of the dangers of traversing unknown urban areas. Once or twice the floor above them let out a stressed groan, but no footsteps were heard. Closed doors they passed were left closed, but sometimes a probing ear would be placed against them, just to be sure. If an open door ran parallel to their path, they’d flick off their lights, hold their breaths, ready their rifles, and then swing around into the room, primed to shoot anything that moved. Once satisfied the room was empty, they’d quietly close the door, put their lights back on, and continue on. Everywhere seemed abandoned.

                    “Halt.” Mladin had Revlin, at the head of the column, stop along with the others. “We’ve been marching almost a full day. We can break and rest here. Objections?”

                    Looks and glances were cast about in the group. Their leader was testing them. Eyes surreptitiously turned to Arban. Arban noticed.

                    “Hey, I’m not crippled,” Arban retorted. He puffed out his chest, then yelped at the pain he’d caused himself. “Though no objection from me.” He lowered his head.

                    Tyomas patted Arby on the shoulder. “A rest might do us some good.”

                    “It might be safer to slip into the metro at night.” Revlin was thinking of their security.

                    “That’s assuming they have a day-night routine.”

                    “Yeah, you’re right Similya. Probably can’t even tell the difference down there.” Tyomas tried a joke, “Let’s hope they don’t have chickens. Imagine the din from confused cocks.”

                    Yelsi stepped forward, giving voice to a feeling they all had. “We’ve been going for weeks to get here. I’ll admit, I am a little terrified at what we’ll find down there, but this is it. I don’t know about you, but I’ll get no sleep if we stop to rest. I’d rather get in there now and get it done.” The excitement resonated. “We’re going to bring these people back into the outside world.”

                    “And,” Revlin piped up, “If there’s a solid bulkhead door between us and the outside, that might be safer than sleeping in here. We’ve not explored half the building, and we’ve skipped clearing most of the rooms. Resting in the metro might be safer.”

                    Vlostad agreed. “If there are people in the metro, friendly people, good Russians, then who knows. I wouldn’t mind a hero’s welcome and a hero’s bed.”

                    “Maybe even a hero’s _breakfast_ , eh, Vlostad?” Tyomas ribbed.

                    “ _I’ve_ never complained about our rations,” he smiled. Yelsi shifted on her feet.

                    Mladin had heard enough. “Good. We’ll enter the metro tonight.”

                    The unit picked its way through the rest of the building. It was labyrinthine. Lots of bureaucracy must have taken place there. Lots of workers. Lots of details. Lots of lives. All managed and filed away here. All lost.

                    They came to their last stop at the final door. They’d wormed their way around the sharp end of an L-shaped hallway.

                    “Through here should be the steps down. We’ll find the concealed entrance at the base.” Mladin looked down the line of his troops. His flashlight’s beam cut a slit through the dusty air. Being packed close, the sound of laboured gas mask breathing was louder than usual. Mladin used the torch, not rudely but pointedly, to shine in the faces of his troops in turn. Revlin was next to him, square on with the door. Past Revlin were Vlostad and Similya. Space was tight, and so they were pressed together. Beyond these two were Tyomas and Yelsi. Tyomas and Yelsi remained front to front, more awkward with the proximity than Vlostad and Similya. Tyomas and Yelsi were practically rubbing noses, but it was preferable to the sexually awkward position that was the alternative. Arban skulked, alone, at the rear. The recruit wasn’t sure if his mind was playing tricks on him, but there was a moaning, shuffling sound coming from down the hall. Nobody else seemed to notice. He didn’t tell the others. He didn’t want to embarrass himself any further by ‘hearing things’.

                    “Struggle,” the leader began.

                    “ **To victory** ,” the unit answered.

                    “Let’s enter.” Mladin ordered.

                    Revlin touched his head against the metal door. It was cold and rusty against his ear. No noise. He pulled back, took a deep breath, and then wrapped a black-gloved hand around the flat iron door handle. He shifted it a little, testing it, as he’d been trained. It was too stiff to tell if it had been tampered with. He tensed himself. This was it. All this time after the bombs had fallen and radio had died, the Russian military had returned to Moscow, to their beloved capital, to see what remained. Revlin breathed in, then went for it. He pulled up the handle, scraping dry metal, freeing the lock, causing something to click nastily on the other side.

 

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Down the Dark, Dark Tunnels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the entrance to the Metro found, and a death-trap already sprung, the Red Army heroes must struggle against an inhuman foe to reach the safety of the tunnels. Once inside though, perhaps the most deadly enemy of all, other humans, make their presence felt.

        The door clicked. Time slowed. Revlin blinked through the sweat, his hand glued to the raised iron handle, muscles committed to following through on the damned action of opening the death-trap door. Mladin, quick as a caged-in tiger, thrust himself to the ground, Vlostad, the opposite side of Revlin, backpedalled into Similya. Nowhere else for them to go, she wrapped herself around him and tugged them both to the floor, bowling over Yelsi and Tyomas. These two collapsed back onto Arban, like tumbled dominos. The recruit landed with a yelp on his injured arm. His bandage was flooded with a fresh red wave of blood.

        Momentum pulled Revlin into the room against his will. A second click rang out, triggering an explosion, a ripple over and above his head. He ducked, neck retreating back into his spine on instinct. He waited for the impact to hit. Closed his eyes. Nothing. He almost stumbled and fell down the flight of stairs. He opened his eyes. The bomb had gone off, all right, but he’d survived. His lungs fought his mask’s filter for oxygen. He skirted shock. Revlin had dropped his flashlight. It finished rolling about, its beam teetering to a stop on the edge of the topmost step, its crackling light illuminating a prone Mladin’s legs through the doorway.

        Revlin picked up the torch, bending slowly, goosepimples pecking his skin. He turned gingerly, and with the torch he examined the failed trap. A line of wire led from the door handle down, around the frame and then back up to some sort of improvised explosive resting atop the mantle. A burnt-out detonator of some sort still smoked. Next to these remains was a tube. As he stared at it, uncomprehending, it plummeted down. The tube’s brittle plastic construction shattered as it struck the hard concrete. A nasty assortment of nails, all cruel and sharp, spilled out.

         It was, or had been, an IED set with a short delay, designed to catch anyone coming through unaware. Lucky for Revlin, age had likely sapped its lethality. He explained his conclusion while his comrades picked themselves back upright. “Thank the Mother it failed. They’d put some type of bomb above the door.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I should have a brain full of shrapnel.” They all wore their masks, but the X5 breather units were no substitutes for ballistic helmets.

         Mladin was straddling the doorway, peeking in, grim-faced but curious. “We open doors at arm’s length from now on. Revlin, take a moment. When you’re ready, clear the path down. We’ll wait here; give you space.”

         “Understood.” Revlin did take a moment. Shaky nerves let skilled men down, as did blurry vision. He swiped off his mask to clean the eye lenses before returning it. When his nerves had settled, he resumed his orders. He scanned what lay ahead: a part-rotted staircase leading down to a cramped landing area, and, he shifted the light to illuminate the dark, there was their objective, their way in; a heavy-set, solid-looking vault-style door. Behind that door was the Metro. Behind that door were their countrymen, just waiting to be liberated.

          He moved slowly, cautiously, down the steps, taking extreme care. It wasn’t long before new traps reared their heads. Thankfully these were easier to deal with. The lower half of the staircase was littered with old-fashioned mechanical bear traps. Revlin had an extendable baton in his light backpack. It was perfect for what he had in mind: he extended the rod and used it to spring each trap in turn. Ten minutes later he was at the bottom of the stairs. It was cramped down here. There was barely enough room for four people to stand together.

          “Wire trap.” He was convinced this was the last obstacle, bar the door of course. A line of wire ran diagonally across the dank floor. That meant there would be a bomb nearby. And there it was. When he was sure he understood the mechanism, he rooted in his backpack for pliers. Crouching low, like some primal hunter, he snipped the trigger line. It split in two with a soft plink. “It’s safe, but watch your step,” he called up, his final survey complete.

          The Red Army unit trudged down the stairs in file. There wasn’t enough room for them all to crowd around the vault door, so they stayed put on the staircase. Mladin did continue to the Metro entrance, and Yelsi pushed past the others to be by the commander’s side; she either wanted to be among the first to enter the Metro and liberate their beloved Moscow, or she’d had enough of Arby’s complaints at the re-opening of his bleeding arm. Revlin looked up. Vlostad and Similya were on the lower steps, toying with a deactivated bear trap. At the far rear was an exasperated Tyomas, his experienced hands full with a whining Arban.

          “I need new bandages,” groaned little Arby.

          “We don’t have that many-“ protested Tyomas.

          “That’s not my fault!” They couldn’t see of course, but they all guessed he was crying under his mask. “You all knocked me. Again! Ow!”

          “Hold still,” harrumphed the medic.

          “My chest too… Ugh.”

          Revlin stopped watching Tyomas play doctor and turned back to the door. He found Yelsi looking at him. It was too dark to make out her eyes, but she gave a curt nod. He smiled under his own mask. He then looked to the stiff-backed commander. If he didn’t know Mladin was there under that X5, he might think a gargoyle was hovering in the blackness, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting travellers.

          “The door?”

“It’s hard to tell. There might be a trap like that one,” Revlin gestured up, “This door’s a heavy one though. I don’t think there’d be a trap like the one in Michurinsk.” He referred back to an abandoned camp they’d picked through on their long journey to Moscow. _That_  door’s trap had been beyond Revlin’s skill to disarm. In the end, the unit had given up trying to find out what was on the other side, though it must have been valuable to warrant such protection, and had just continued on their way.

          “We’ll swing it open then throw a grenade.” Mladin nodded at his own plan.

          Revlin gave the expected agreement. “My thoughts too. We can-“

          “Contact!”

          Everyone looked up, fumbling with their rifles and bringing them to bear.

          “Contact, Arban?” snapped Mladin.

          “There’s something-“

          “He’s hearing things,” Tyomas quickly interjected. “There’s nothing there.”

          “No, no,” Arby groaned.

          Vlostad nudged Similya. She nudged him back with her shoulder.

          “I heard it before. It was in … in the toilets,” Arby muttered, swaying unsteadily.

          “Tyomas?” Mladin ignored the younger man.

          “I think that fall just now’s been a bit too much. Come on, comrade,” tried the medic, using his best bedside manner. “Man up.”

          “It’s coming! I can feel it!” Arban broke into a fit of spluttering. He gave another shriek then collapsed, unconscious. Everyone flinched.

          “He’s out,” reported a shaken Tyomas. The medic holstered his torch to take Arby in both hands. The reduction of light made being near the door suddenly uncomfortable.

          The commander had heard enough. “Vlostad, Similya. Secure that door. We’re moving on.” While the couple advanced up the stairs, treading as stealthily as they could in their black combat boots, dodging the sprung traps, Mladin addressed Revlin and Yelsi. “Yelsi, get up the stairs. Revlin, open the door. I’ll stay this side of it and throw a grenade when it’s ajar.”

          The soldiers moved to comply. Revlin wrapped his hands around the door’s large valve handle and set about pulling counter-clockwise. It didn’t seem to move. The metal grated against itself. He paused to sling his rifle more securely, then redoubled his efforts. The handle gave off a horrible, wailing sound. Seeing him struggle, Mladin slung his rifle too and joined in the pulling.

          “Do … you … think … they … locked it … other … side?” Revlin grunted.

          “Maybe,” said Mladin. “But no door … will … keep us out.”

          Vlostad and Similya overtook Tyomas and Arban. He followed her lead as she reached the door. There was no noise the way they’d come. What had rattled Arby? She paused and sniffed. Was there a strange smell? It was hard to tell. Maybe it was residue from the bomb. Whatever it was, something felt wrong. She signalled her intentions to Vlostad, who gave a curt nod of acknowledgement, then moved into the corridor.

*******

          “Yelsi,” said Mladin, stretching his back.

          Yelsi understood. Before she had to be given the order, she too slung her rifle and joined the two men at the valve.

          Revlin took a deep breath. “On … three.”

          They went on three, tugging at the reluctant steel, and against their combined might it seemed to budge ever so slightly.

          “More,” wheezed Revlin. They pulled and pulled, as hard as they could. There was a snapping sound followed by a muffled clink, and then a sudden reduction in pressure. They all felt it. The handle started to turn more smoothly.

          “I think we just … broke … a lock on the … other side.”

          “I’ll take it from here,” Mladin intoned. The other two relaxed and let the commander continue working the door. It was still far from an easy job, but he could manage. Revlin and Yelsi joined Tyomas in consoling Arby. The recruit had come around but had started babbling about monsters or some such nonsense.

***

            Similya padded down the corridor, retracing their steps. Everything had seemed fine here not so long ago. Just another corridor in an abandoned building. No signs of animal life. But now she had that niggling feeling that there _was_ something here. An alien presence. Had Arban jangled her nerves?

            “Something wrong?” Vlostad asked.

            Behind them was a dead end, as well as the side door leading to the staircase. Ahead of them was the turn they’d taken earlier, and then another door, several paces away, with a faded sign hanging above it. She could just about read it in what ambient light shone through cracks in the ceiling and holes in the walls. ‘Toilets’. Neither her nor her partner had their torches switched on. She didn’t want to give themselves away to whatever beast might be on the prowl, real or not.

            “Arby said something about the toilets.”

            Vlostad frowned to himself. “How could he have heard something all the way in the toilets, from the staircase?”

            It was Similya’s turn to frown. “No. He said he heard it before.”

            Vlostad gave her an affirming nudge. _Okay. I’m with you._

            She advanced to the toilets, the archetype of vigilance. She checked the blind corner when she got to it. No sign that anything had passed by. All exactly the same as it had been when they’d first walked through. But there was still that strange smell. She couldn’t place it. Was it the smell of mint? Or … wait. Was it just that her nose was tingling? She shook herself. “Way we came looks clear. Let’s check the bathrooms.”

            Vlostad gave her a little salute. She went up to the door to the toilets. It hadn’t been shut properly. It was ever so slightly open, resting shut on the lock. Not a good sign. She put her head against the wood, mindful not to bump her gas mask. There was something in there alright. She could hear laboured, pained breathing. Either something not human, or some animal in its death throws.

            “Contact,” she whispered. He nodded. She backed away. She flicked her flashlight on and pointed it at the doorway. Vlostad cocked his rifle. At his signal, she kicked the door open and stepped aside, shining in her torch. The door didn’t so much swing open as fall flat down, crumpling in on itself. Vlostad fired away, loosing off silenced shots. As he fired, her eyes registered what she was seeing. The point of her flashlight moved up from the ragged corpse of a freshly killed beast, evidenced by the crimson blood still flowing from its torn body, and over the hulking black mass of a humanoid monstrosity. It could have been that she was too close to a firing weapon, silenced as Vlostad’s rounds were, but a splitting headache came over her and a feeling of wrongness pervaded her thoughts. The smell, or sensation, or whatever the hell it was doubled in potency. Similya buckled and ran, Vlostad right behind her.

***

          With a final clang, the door to the Metro announced itself open, ready, if not entirely happy, to permit the military unit access to the dark, dark tunnels of the Metro. This was it. As the two men had planned, Revlin positioned himself flat against the wall. Yelsi retreated up the stairs, shepherding Tyomas and Arban with her. Mladin flanked the door opposite Revlin. The heavy steel frame would open outwards. Revlin would push it so, and then Mladin would throw a grenade into the tunnel, in theory springing any further traps that might await them.

          With deep a breath, prepared for the worst, Revlin leant out, put his left hand on the door and gave it a backwards shove. For a glorious second the door screeched open. Then it stopped. Friction. Drag. The door was half open, half shut. “See anything?” he whispered,

          “Nothing.” Mladin was blunt.

          “If it was the same type of bomb as the other, that movement would have triggered it already.”

          The leader nodded. “Still, I’ll throw the grenade.”

          “Wait,” noted Yelsi, seeing what he planned to do. “There could be people there.”

          Mladin inched his face to the opening and yelled out, “Red Army. Stand back from the door.” With that done, he produced a grenade, flicked the pin, and rolled it through the crack in the door.

          All ears: Mladin’s, Revlin’s, Yelsi’s, Tyomas’ and Arban’s pricked up at the sound of that grenade being cocked. All eyes: Mladin’s, Revlin’s, Yelsi’s, Tyomas’ and Arban’s watched Mladin roll it out. Then everyone jumped, spooked, as Similya and Vlostad thundered back into the room, smashing down the stairs.

          “Monsters!”

***

          The grenade blew and the door shook a little. The soldiers swept up their weapons, unsure whether to rush in and follow the blast, or stay put and face the monsters. Revlin tried both. Aiming up the stairs over the heads of his friends with his rifle – Vlostad and Similya had forced their way down, in their urgency shunting their comrades towards Mladin and himself – and he tried to barge the door open with his back. There was still too much resistance.

          Pawing Revlin out of the way, Mladin faced the door head-on and delivered a powerful kick. It swung open. “Out,” he commanded, shoving the technician out into the tunnels. “Out,” he repeated, grabbing Yelsi and bundling her out after him. Mladin knelt by the doorway, his weapon trained on the doorway. “Into the tunnel,” he told the rest.

          Tyomas and Arban scuttled through, followed by Vlostad and a shaken Similya. As the final members of his squadron made it out, Mladin saw something shift high above at the top of the stairs. He fired off a burst of shots. The figure didn’t seem perturbed. He couldn’t make it out. There wasn’t enough light. He fired again, two more crisp bangs. The shape was edging down the steps. He’d seen enough. He rolled out into the tunnel. Sprawling on the ground, still aiming into the room to cover his men, he barked out, “Close the door.”

          “The monster,” sighed Arban, leaning against the tunnel wall far back from the action. He seemed to forget where he was and what he should be doing.

          Yelsi and Revlin rushed to push shut the heavy vault door. They then set about desperately turning that handle, locking out the monster.

          “What was it?” asked Tyomas, in awe. Arban hadn’t been hearing things.

          “I don’t know,” replied Similya, honestly. Vlostad didn’t speak.

          “There,” let out Yelsi. “Door’s shut.” She and Revlin backed away from it.

          “More light.” Mladin was up, inspecting the tunnel. “Keep your rifles ready.”

          His soldiers complied, flicking on their torches. Even with them, the Metro was too vast. They could see nothing in either direction.

          “I’ll set up the floodlight,” suggested Revlin. He dropped his backpack to find it.

          “We’ll-“ Mladin was cut off by the sound of the door. Its circular handle was being turned. From the other side. The animal that had spooked Similya must be an intelligent one. “Vlostad, Similya, hold that door shut! Revlin, get us that light. Tyomas, watch east. Yelsi, watch west. Arban…” He didn’t bother giving the last man a command.

          Similya and Vlostad raced to the door. They grasped the mechanism and desperately fought to keep it closed. The harder they struggled, the harder the _thing_ did too. They started to lose ground to it. “Blyad!” she swore. “It’s turning!”

          Mladin was looking about the tunnel. He knew that to reach the heart of the Metro they’d need to head east, or right, if you were to face the door, but still he felt it prudent to investigate for any clues as to which way civilization might lie down here. He couldn’t ignore Similya’s cries. He joined her and Vlostad and gripped the handle firmly. He’d worn out his back battling to gain passage, now he wore it out further battling to deny passage. His heavy pack didn’t help either. The monster was tough, fighting not just the natural friction of the battered steel but also the strength of three relatively healthy soldiers.

          As they struggled against the monster, there was an instant explosion of light. They all blinked, taking a second to adjust. Revlin had gotten the light going, and now he too leapt to the door, though there wasn’t enough handle for an extra pair of hands to take.

          “Swap with me,” said Vlostad. Revlin hastily obliged, giving his comrade respite.

          Soon though Similya asked the same, and Vlostad was back on turning duty.

          The couple were both frightened, and that frightened Revlin. And despite four pairs of hands having held the handle, it felt unnaturally cold to his touch. What in the hell was this thing? They turned and turned.

          “Hold it!” commanded Mladin. There was a real strain in his voice.

           Just when they thought they could hold it no longer, there was an awful wrenching sound and the valve came free in their hands. They let it tumble free to a clunk. The door itself had lost the battle; the mechanism had broken. There was no way for the monster to come through now, except by brute force against thick metal.

          “Is that it?” Similya asked.

          Vlostad put his head to the door. “I think so.” He couldn’t hear it.

          Silence reigned. With this onset of quiet, and with the warm orange glow from Revlin’s floodlight revealing the mysteries of this eerie place, the soldiers found themselves taking in the details of this midnight realm they’d stepped into. The tunnel was about ten-men wide, if they stood shoulder to shoulder. The ambiguity of the dark lent it a near infinite-feeling, though they knew these tunnels had to end somewhere. The individual bricks of the thousand thousand that made up the tunnel could be picked out one by one, faint cracks visible between them. They arched up and around, surrounding them. Drips of phlegmatic liquid fell from the ceiling here and there. Whenever a droplet met a murky puddle, it gave a reverberated splash sound. The rest of the ground was a mass of debris, dirt, fallen brick, strewn rubbish, grizzled remains and worse, but cutting through all of this was a single train track, a crudely-maintained thing, bony, sinewy, reminiscent of a starving skeleton.

          They all hovered, spread out, lost in their reflections. Tyomas finally broke the quiet. His humour had been sapped by their encounter with a monster. A monster that could open doors. He tried to search within himself for a joke to level the mood, conjure back their tight-knit spirit, but he couldn’t find the words. Instead he noted, gloomily, “We’re not getting back out that way.”

          Mladin’s neck made a snapping sound as he shot Tyomas a look. Tyomas was glad they both had masks, so he was spared actual eye contact. He knew he was being rebuked. Before either man could pass further comment, Yelsi spoke up.

          “There are people coming.”

          “People?” wondered Arby, clutching at his arm. None could see, but he was deathly pale beneath his X5. The encounter had left him touched.

          “About two hundred metres. Maybe quite a large group,” Yelsi added. “With our light, they’ll have a good view of us, even from that distance.”

          “Everyone, weapons west. Tyomas, Arby, cover the rear. Revlin, kill the light. Flashlights on, but fingers on triggers.”

          It felt much colder when the orange glow died down from the floodlight.

          The oncoming group drew near. They could be heard better than they could be seen: sniffing, stumbling, marching, stepping; it all echoed along the tunnel. It was hard to tell how many people there were, but they were certainly marching in the shape of a column. Did that make them military? Mladin assumed so.

          Soon the arrivals were close enough to talk to. These people were in a column for sure, though a rag-tag column at that. Two thick-set men, in bedraggled military uniform – Mladin was right – were leading the way. Behind them spilled a gaggle of others. Were they wearing some type of hat? Or were those sacks over their heads? Mladin hoped the former. Beyond the hooded figures, in a neater formation, were a couple of rows of other men, who Mladin assumed wore the same military uniform as those at the fore. Distributed amongst the crowd were weak flashlights, pump-action sorts: useful when there’s no power, but no match for the equipment Mladin’s soldiers had.

          “Hold there,” Mladin called out. “We are friendly. Identify yourselves.”

          The column halted. A single man’s footsteps could be heard, clip-clapping as they raced from the back to the front of the crowd. This man weaselled into view, sliming past the two meaty guards at the head of the column. “Oberleutnant Gerbur.” He looked at them with glossy eyes and wet lips. His black uniform was impeccably neat, possibly starched. He eyed them with a suspicious hunger, intrigued by the outsiders’ appearances, their outlandish masks in particular. “Who are you?”

None of these people had gas masks. The men in uniform did have ballistic, battered but ballistic, helmets. Gerbur wore nothing but an oily lock of Aryan hair. Mladin wondered if the air here was safe to breathe, or if the people simply wore no masks because they’d run out over the years.

          “Oberleutnant,” mouthed Yelsi quietly, unsettled. A German title in a Russian city?

          “We’ve come from outside the Metro. We are not strangers – we are the Red Army, your brothers. We are here to liberate you.” Revlin felt pride surge in his chest as he said these words, just as he’d practiced.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading parts one and two. This is my first fan fiction, so feedback would be very welcome. Part three will come in the near future, most likely the end of September, and take us ever deeper into the dark, beating heart of the Metro...


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